Needle In The Hay
by jamiesgotagun15
Summary: A Clockwork Orange' a creature capable of only good or evil. An appearance of a lovely organism bright with colour and juice, but only able to perform that of God or the Devil.
1. Chapter 1

Needle In The Hay

Disc. None.

Author Notezz: This is an experiment/challenge/idea/work in progress playing on the idea of "A Clockwork Orange". If you don't know the story line, don't worry.

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'A Clockwork Orange' -- a creature capable of only good or evil. An appearance of a lovely organism bright with colour and juice, but only able to perform that of God or the Devil.

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It seems like moments, seconds, maybe even minutes since that day, a fortnight (however long that is) ago, when her thin, canvas bags were packed from Cell-Block C and sent at her side to the California State Hospital, Private Operation Suite. She had been made to lie in her bed for moments, for hours, and then was stuck with a vitamin inducing needle, told that she was malnourished and that this would help retrieve her back to full health.

She wasn't stupid. Maybe regretful suddenly when they brought her to large, private moving theatre, and strapped her to a chair in the front row, but not stupid. She had asked a nurse, not too long ago, "So, what's exactly gonna' go down?", and had been responded with a short smile of crooked, twisting, pale teeth, and "You'll be viewing some videos."

What a technique. Twelve fucking months to come up with some videos. These were going to cure her.

She had doubted, but presently that wasn't so. Strapped to a chair, eyes held clamped open by a rusting, rigid mechanical device, unable to blink, she began to regret wanting this. She began to regret volunteering, but spoke of nothing.

Two lights lowered, shadows disappeared and the screen slowly began to fill with patterns and shapes of beautiful, stretching colour.

First, two men, one sitting against a street side building, his beard unshaven, his eyes wild with alcohol and his clothes hanging limply off the lanky body. Then, the other man, walking so innocent up towards this other, and without giving much thought, kicking him in the stomach. And suddenly, beating him. Viciously, merciless, he retrieved a short, though wide piece of discarded plywood and sprung it across the defenceless face. Blood, sweet, colour, flowed from his face, from his nostrils, his lips, and Faith LeHane felt a slight rivering of adrenaline float across her veins. The man, thrilled by his own violence, continued to aggress, and cruelly retrieve. It was all beautiful, in a sense. Only when we put the acts up onto a television screen does it seem beautiful. The blood spilled, and suddenly, her stomach lurched. Her lips bubbled and bile rose in her throat. She was slowly getting sick.

What a new feeling, what a strange sensation when something she had thrived on so dearly for so long began to put her in violent revulsion. She gagged—

The film changed once the seated man had toppled over upon himself and lay motionless in a pile of his own blood, shit, alcohol, and tears.

War. Men walking step and step, pointing guns, yelling and throwing commands, thrusting up their arms, their underarms leaking viciously, their temples bulging. A flag raised, black and white with a twisted symbol. People cried in the streets, and were presently greeted with a quite blunt trigger-pull to the face.

--She gasped, blood and bile catching and mixing in the back of her throat. She couldn't breathe; her insides were as twisted and ruined as the endless reign of broken bodies being tossed to decay in the flooding rivers.

"I'm—I… I'm gonna' be sick."

The volume turned louder, the sweet, sultry sounds of Vivaldi. The Four Seasons # 2 in G Minor, Op 8, RV 315, "Summer" blasting through the speakers, thumping and near explosion in their stations above the screen.

"I'm going to be sick. I'm going to be sick. I--…" Her voice gave, her mouth watered in anticipation, though her stomach refused to empty itself.

"No… nonononononon, get me outta' here! Get me out! I'm gonna' be sick! GET ME OUT! OUT!"

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	2. Chapter 2

Needle in the Hay

Dsic:. Noingth

Wonderful.

* * *

Twice a day.

Five times a week.

Three weeks under the Ludovico Technique and its cure for the modern convict and their redemption.

Have I really been cured? She would think to herself many times over as the acid coloured taxicab rolled her sluggishly back towards the hidden, fictional streets of Sunnydale, California. Had I really changed because I was forced to watch some videos?

Everything was surreal. The scene outside her fingerprint tinted window, the hands that connected to what were supposed to be her arms, all of it was constricting and unreal. She was returning to Sunnydale, cured, but quite literally "sick" of violence. The thought simply of even staking a vampire, which occurred automatically, thoughtless over the course of the ride back to her previous hometown, caused her insides to rumble and twist, forming the brief bubbling at her lips and a quiet groan to escape her dry, chapped lips.

And then there was of course, Buffy. Buffy Elizabeth Anne Summers. Or Elizabeth Buffy Anne Summers. She wasn't sure, it didn't matter though. Buffy had to have heard of the experiments put on her. She had to have because the newspapers and News television shows wouldn't shut up about it. She probably knew every detail, every part of her stay at the State Hospital, right down to the brand and colour of the jello that was served with her meals every day.

And with the fact that Buffy knew, came the thought that quite possibly she understood, and realized that this whole endeavour, this whole act had been for her. It was for her, and she had to understand. She had to know that redemption, goodness, whatever it was that been bestowed so forcefully upon her whether she originally wanted it or not, was for her.

All these thoughts, all these 'for hers' had taken up an hour, plus one half maybe, and teleported her it seemed to 1630 Revello Drive. Faith couldn't even remember arriving in Sunnydale, much less telling the driver to bring her here. Never the less, she silently paid the man, took her things from beneath her feet, and stumbled up to the door.

Her fingers had just barely recovered from knocking when the door was thrown open, and then promptly closed behind Elizabeth Anne Buffy Whatever Summers. She stood here before her, though many inches shorter, just as chilling. "Heard about it already. What you think you're some kind of hero? Some sort of saint now because they flushed the bad out of you?" And on came the blows. Faith stepped back with Buffy's words, keeping two chocolate doe eyes against the ground and letting each petty insult bounce off of her. She had learned to drown Buffy out over the years.

"I just -- … "

"You just… what? Didn't think? Didn't care? I'm through Faith. You're out of my life. You're dead to me."

The door suddenly closed and Buffy was gone, disappeared inside to promptly be asked by her squad of friends who had disturbed them at so late an hour, to which she most likely replied, "Someone was lost."

Faith stepped away from the porch, down the few steps, and took herself down the warm Sunnydale streets, hugging her package of things tight to her chest, wondering if she might possibly find a home for the night. It didn't matter though if she did or not. She was a creep, a loser, an old story on an outdated newspaper.

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End file.
